


Legitimate Complaints

by Ange_de_la_Mort



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_de_la_Mort/pseuds/Ange_de_la_Mort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About scar tissue and grocery shopping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legitimate Complaints

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by the wonderful [amanstwo](http://amanstwo.tumblr.com/)

“It’s an experiment,” Sherlock says and John scoffs annoyed. Everything is an experiment for him, like he can’t take anything seriously, like he’s always playing, always testing things out (and always on John, which is why the thought of being used as a guinea pig - again - leaves only the feeling of discontent like a bitter taste building up in his throat), always looking at him with this cold, scrutinizing gaze that makes him shiver in a cluster of uncertain feelings.  
  
He discards his jumper and lays it down on the chair next to him. A sigh escapes his lips and he turns to face Sherlock, to ask him if he’s happy now, but is silenced by exactly that gaze being inflicted upon him right now. He purses his lips and forces himself not to cross his arms over his chest to protect the last shreds of dignity he has not yet left at the doorstep the very moment he decided to share a flat with this imbecile of a genius.  
  
Sherlock paces around him, circles him in long, graceful strides and as his eyes - pale silverish grey; like the first droplet of morning dew or the spark of an ice crystal reflecting in the winter sun (yes, he knows it sounds cliché, but hey, he has never claimed to be good at writing or describing) fall on the white, scarred skin of his left shoulder, John knows exactly what this experiment is about.  
  
“No,” he says, and when he sees Sherlock furrowing his brows - most likely in calm ennui -, he says “no” again. “I’m not going to let you hurt me.”  
  
“John, don’t be daft! I wouldn’t hurt you!”  
  
“You have before.”  
  
“Well, not this time, obviously!”  
  
“Obviously,” John repeats unconvinced. No wonder, for Sherlock has done a lot of unpleasant things to him (until now he has been burned, drugged, drowned, stabbed and dragged into enough danger to last for a few lifetimes), and anybody with even a shred of sanity would rather jump into an active volcano than let Sherlock touch him ever again. John likes to believe himself a sane man, although he has to admit to having lost quite a fair bit of reasonable thinking or he would never have lasted this long with Sherlock as a flatmate. And now he fears to have gone completely mad, because he looks into those icy grey eyes and sees the anger and impatience held within them. He sighs again (he does it often these days, but who wouldn’t?) in resignation and nods slowly. “It’s not like I can persuade you to leave me alone, can I? If I refuse, you’ll just wait until I fall asleep.” And, contrary to certain consulting detectives, he actually needs his sleep.  
  
“I could surprise you while you shower, if you prefer.”  
  
John actually ponders this for a moment (and that says a lot about the state of his mind) and shakes his head. “Just get it over with.”  
  
In return, Sherlock smiles one of those seldom smiles where he quirks the left corner of his mouth in a way that resembles his trademark smirk, only with less arrogance and more childlike wonder. When he reaches out and traches the cluster of lines with a fingertip, John does his best to suppress a shudder he knows Sherlock has anticipated anyway.  
“You were facing him when he shot,” Sherlock states while his fingers resume their treatment. “From the angle of the entrance wound, you were standing above him. An enemy you had falsely declared as dead. A mistake no experienced soldier makes, so you must have been on one of your first missions.” As John stays silent - why should he confirm things they both already know to be correct? -, Sherlock lays one hand on John’s chest and shoves him back onto the sofa. Here, John protests - of course he does - and then even more so when Sherlock straddles his hips. However, Sherlock ignores him - of course he does, he never listens to any of John’s complaints. Instead, he continues touching the oh so sensitive flesh, scraping it with a fingernail and drawing a startled gasp out of John’s mouth. “Does it hurt?” Sherlock asks with a hint of concern in his voice.  
  
John shakes his head hastily, for he fears words will fail him. No. No, it doesn’t. Quite the contrary. But that’s one thing he will not admit out loud.  
  
“Good,” comes the answer with a low sigh, and then there is Sherlock’s mouth latching onto his shoulder, licking and sucking on the tender flesh. A satisfied hum leaves Sherlock’s lips, vibrating through John’s skin, when John makes a startled sound and fists a hand in dark brown curls, pulling ever so slightly.  
  
John can feel himself slowly getting hard, can feel his trousers grow tight and - to his own shock and surprise - can feel himself bucking up against Sherlock’s hips as the man continues assaulting his shoulder with licks and bites. Every time Sherlock’s tongue laps at the flesh, John’s breath hitches, comes out in shaky gasps that turn into low and breathy moans when Sherlock’s fingers find a nipple and pinch _hard_. He arches his back in an futile effort to get away from and draw closer to the touches at the same time. His grip in Sherlock’s hair tightens and he can hear a sigh that he - after a second of confusion - indentifies as most definitely _not_ his own.  
  
Sherlock’s hands roam downwards, over John’s ribs and stomach to his crotch. He squeezes once, twice before opening the fly and worming his fingers inside. John shouts a curse and Sherlock’s name as the bastard takes him in his hand, as he strokes him lazily and brushes a thumb over the slit, all the while never stopping the minuscule movements of his lips and tongue and teeth.  
  
John is leaking already and he knows he won’t last much longer; not with those sinfully long and bony fingers stroking and teasing his length. It feels hot in the room with Sherlock’s clothed body pressed against his own and his world is spinning; spinning with the thoughts of “Why?” and “What?” and “I need … “, and then he squeezes his eyes shut and - with a growl he doesn’t recognize as his own - releases all over Sherlock’s hand. Slowly, he loosens his grip on the dark curls and tries to remember how to breathe as he watches Sherlock first stare fascinated at the white and sticky substance and then wipe it off with a tissue.  
  
“I’d call this a success.”  
  
John only makes a confused sound and draws the jumper over his head with shaky fingers.  
  
“Actually, I prove more points than just one. Firstly, the scar tissue on your shoulder is very sensitive, so you should take care not to get attacked during our investigations. You don’t want anybody to hit or hurt you there, for I assure you the agony wouldn’t be worth it.” John opens his mouth, but Sherlock holds up a hand to silence him. “Secondly, you are obviously attracted to me - which is very flattering, but I already told you I’m married to my work -, otherwise you would have prevented me from sexually pleasuring you. Since you are blushing right now - oh, don’t try to deny it, John, I am not blind -, you either were not even aware of your attraction until now or you were trying to not let me know. I presume the latter option, if you don’t mind. And thirdly, finally, you, John Watson, are a liar.”  
  
“… what?”  
  
“Only yesterday, you said your shoulder hurts too much for you to carry the bags from the supermarket, which I did not believe for a single minute, mind you, since if you really were to be hurt, you would sport a pained look on your face all the time and not only when you think I’m watching.”  
  
Sherlock stops talking with a pleased smile on his lips and John returns the look dumbstruck. “I will,” he says calmy and slowly, “I swear I will one day strangle you in your sleep.”  
  
“Oh, I look forward to it,” Sherlock says and turns to examine the tissue and John’s seed under his microscope.


End file.
